


Duo

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:20:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26862763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Spock and Chekov hold hands because aliens.
Relationships: Pavel Chekov/Spock
Comments: 13
Kudos: 51





	Duo

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Technically speaking, standard Starfleet-issue tricorders are meant to be operated with _both_ hands, but the local culture doesn’t lend itself well to that. They aren’t in disguise by any stretch—Spock’s bold blue tunic stands sharply out against the sea of yellow smocks, more akin to Chekov’s command gold. Spock keeps his tricorder right out in the open, like Chekov holds his communicator at the ready, and their two leftover hands are firmly intertwined between them. 

It’s mildly uncomfortable. It makes it troublesome to operate the tricorder. Most of all, it’s needlessly cumbersome, because their landing party is essentially left to operate with _no_ free hands, but every single person on the busy street is holding hands with _someone_ , and if the Federation wants to establish any worthwhile trade agreements with Mrennenimus Prime, they have to do it according to the bylaws. So Spock obeys the command of the Mrennenimian High Priest and his own captain, keeping his long fingers tightly clasped around Chekov’s trim digits no matter how awkward it gets. 

At least they have a clear chain of command. Spock’s noticed more than one native attempt to go in one direction while their partner wants another, resulting in rather public squabbles and even one-handed combat, whereas Spock can confidently lead the way and Chekov obediently follows. He goes mostly where his tricorder dictates, following the curiously diverse deposits of pergium, cropping up here and there in seemingly random objects. The Mrennenimian people themselves have been no help with these sources, but the crew of the Enterprise was invited to look all they like, barter for what they will, and keep what they can, provided they do it in accordance with standard Mrennenimian practices. The fact that they have to hold hands for such deals isn’t even the most obtrusive part; Spock’s already decided to let the chin-nuzzling deal-sealing ritual fall on Chekov’s head when they do find a suitable source of minerals. 

His screen picks up a sizeable source down the next side-street, and so he turns them down it, tugging Chekov along the purple cobblestones. Chekov keeps up with his clipped pace, quietly humming a tune under his breath that’s presumably of Russian origin. The locals seem fond of music—every time they pass an open booth, they hear an entirely new song. Spock offers no melody of his own but doesn’t yet scold Chekov for it, at least not while he’s keeping it so low that non-Vulcan ears wouldn’t be able to pick it up. It’s not surprising that Chekov forgot Spock’s superior hearing. The bright, fanciful marketplace has more than enough distractions going on to derail any feeble human mind. 

Another left, and the two of them climb a set of deliberately zigzagged stairs, setup to weave around potted plants and waffles. A rogue ground-pancake nearly trips Chekov at the top, but Spock’s solid grip keeps him upright. There’s a brief second where Chekov’s stumbling causes him to squeeze Spock’s palm particularly hard, and he shoots Spock an apologetic look for it, but Spock remains untroubled. He’s aware that the sensitivity of Vulcan touch has become greatly exaggerated of late. When they were first paired up for the first landing party, he saw the guilt in Chekov’s wide eyes, but he ensured the wayward ensign that he would be able to suffer the violation. He’d swallowed his own worry that Chekov would be a particularly difficult partner to have, being so young, human, and _emotional_ , but Chekov’s behaved admirably professional—light singing aside. The tight skin-on-skin contact has proven manageable. 

(It does help, perhaps, that the First District has a relatively cold climate and Chekov’s hand is wondrously _warm_. It isn’t nearly so hot as the sands of Vulcan, but it is a comforting whisper of home on an alien iceberg.)

Chekov’s heartbeat is also a tad erratic, something that throbs against Spock’s palm and rings right up to his ears. That thrumming rhythm spikes whenever they spot something particularly jarring, such as the dancing pseudo-turtles balanced on tightropes strung between buildings, but Spock reasons that the emotional tell could be useful under certain circumstances. If a rogue Klingon leaps out from a nearby enclosure, Chekov’s pulse will broadcast the problem before his mouth can. Not that Spock has any free hands to reach for his phaser.

The readings seem to be coming from a tall, closed flower drooping around a multi-directional signpost. Spock takes them to it, runs over it, but can’t spot anywhere the precious resource could be hiding. Then it occurs to him that a pergium pebble could be hidden within the flower itself. 

There’s no other logical way to proceed. Glancing both ways down the street and seeing no one paying them any mind, Spock dares to let go of Chekov’s hand long enough to pry the delicate petals open.

Sure enough, a glittering rock lies at the center. No sooner has he seen it than footsteps sound towards him, and he looks back in time to catch a large Mrennenimian woman reaching out for them. 

She grabs Spock’s and Chekov’s wrists and slots them back together. She even nods to neither of them, as though to congratulate herself on correcting the situation. Then she meanders off without a word. Chekov looks after her, frowning. 

Spock says what he knows the ensign is thinking: “This is most inconvenient.”

“Da,” Chekov mutters under his breath, before turning to Spock and forcing a smile. “But it could be worse, yes?” Spock quirks an eyebrow, not seeing the relevance of that—of course everything in the universe is relative. Chekov shifts his weight onto his other foot and tries to explain, “I just mean... surely some of the other landing parties got paired up with—ah, not that anyone aboard the Enterprise isn’t someone you’d want to hold hands with—” He cuts himself off, floundering, clearly caught in one of those ‘word vomit’ traps, as Dr. McCoy calls them. “I just meant, ah... well, at least I get to walk around with an attractive man on my arm?” He cracks a small grin, and Spock instantly recognizes that he’s attempting a joke. Or trying to be charming. One of those things. (Perhaps the complement’s still sincere.) It’s something Jim would do, and then Spock would dryly shoot it down, and Dr. McCoy would challenge him, resulting in a slew of banter that would effectively take his mind off their unfortunately circumstances for a little longer. 

He doesn’t have that repertoire with the young navigator and doesn’t plan to foster it. In the interest of not bruising Chekov’s likely fragile human ego, Spock agrees, “You are visually acceptable as well.” Chekov’s eyes widen, lips parting, and Spock experiences a quick flash of regret unworthy of a Vulcan. Perhaps that was going too far. 

He decides to abort the entire situation and instead begins looking about for the owner of the flower, in the hopes they can strike an acceptable trade. There’s a bulbous pink creature nearby that looks something like a Terran praying mantis and might be a Mrennenimian shopkeeper, or might be one of the mindless wildlife species that has somehow evolved to look exactly like the Mrennenimian people. As the sentient species has begun dressing the non-sentient kind for no reason Spock can discern, it can be difficult to tell who’s a person and who’s a person-shaped mental-Sehlat. 

Spock takes the risk of approaching the maybe-shopkeeper, only to see it turn and walk right into a wall. Even I-Chaya was never that foolish. Chekov’s communicator beeps, and Spock gives him a curt nod to answer it whilst looking around for the next likely candidate. 

Chekov does answer, and Sulu’s voice rings through it, _“No luck in the Dolphin District. How’re you holding up over there?”_

“We may hawe found something,” Chekov replies, before lowering his voice and turning as much as their hand-holding allows to whisper into his communicator, “I think Spock called me hot!”

Obviously, Spock wasn’t meant to hear that. But he very much did. He ignores Sulu’s shocked silence and resists the urge to sigh. His fingers slip to the edge of Chekov’s, just barely holding on, in his effort to look around the square. 

Another random civilian pops by to solidify their grip. Spock can already tell it’s going to be one of _those_ missions.


End file.
